I want to write my own song. I want it to be the best song I’ve ever written. And it will be, because it will be my first one. I’ve been cleaning all these cobwebs of doubt out of my head; I’m too old start now, I cant sing, I’ll never be as good as the ones I admire, I’ll never catch up. I’ll never be good enough.

I want to write my own song. I am replacing those cobwebs of doubt with jewels of wisdom. I can’t sing like Beyoncé but I can sing like me. I know poetry. I played keyboard until I was 12. I can do it. I can do it. I can do it.

I want want to write my own song. I’ve already been practising, passively consuming, but the way that music makes me feel is not passive; active, an active body shaking, her atoms vibrating, to the sounds exploding in her ears. 3:56, 2:51, 1:63; how many minutes? How many hours, upon hours, upon years, has she spent listening? Her thoughts crash together, melt into the music of footsteps on a hardcandy-shimmering path, into a midnight blue forest of swaying trees and up into the cracks and pops of stars in outer space.

I’m going to write my own song. I went an bought an old synthesiser off eBay. It cost me the same as my first iPod, the one I saved up for and bought when I was 16. Hopefully by the time this next theme comes around I’ll have a song to share with you. For now, I’m just playing, and listening out for its footsteps.